


Stealing Heartlines

by Reinamy



Category: Final Fantasy VII
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, BAMF Cloud Strife, Butchering of Canon, M/M, Romance, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Sorry Not Sorry, Time Skips, relatively little plot
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-12
Updated: 2015-12-12
Packaged: 2018-05-06 08:14:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5409581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Reinamy/pseuds/Reinamy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which General Sephiroth falls in love with a thief.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so this is a canon AU wherein Cloud was raised in the slums. There are several canonical discrepancies, though the most important of note is that the Planet isn't in immediate danger of dying, Jenova is dormant, and there's about a 10 year age difference between Cloud and Sephiroth. And now that that's out of the way...please enjoy!

**[ μ ] – εуλ 1984 / September**

 

If anyone were to have asked, traversing below the plate was not an improvement to being holed up in his office with heaps of paperwork to sort through. Some would consider it a reprieve from the monotony of form-filling, report surveying, and having to attend mind-numbing conferences, but likely those people had little in the way of a moral conscience _or_ mako-enhanced senses that made the offensive stench that permeated the slums nigh unbearable.

It was a conglomeration of urine, feces, trash, inadequate hygiene, and disease, and to one whose sense of smell was heightened by nearly twenty-eight percent in comparison to the average human's, it was _terrible,_ a tangible pong that burned his nostrils and seared his airways and made his sensitive eyes sting. Not plugging his nose was an exercise in restraint, as was appearing to remain unaffected as he stalked through the streets of Sector 7 and witnessed firsthand the extent of ShinRa's malfeasance.

Brigadier General Sephiroth, SOLDIER First Class, was not a kind man. Murder, subjugation, tyranny, abduction, torture, theft—he'd committed it all, often without question or hesitance, and prompted by nothing more than narrow orders conveniently bereft of substance, of justification, of excuse. But as an operative of ShinRa—whether or not that was of his own volition was inconsequential—that was what was expected of him. He had a job, and he did it well.

Even so. Sephiroth was not a kind man, but neither was he heartless, and he wasn't immune to the poverty that festered in Midgar's slums; of the living conditions of ShinRa Inc.'s forsaken. As he walked, his eyes imperceptibly tracked the crude simulacrum of houses made of castoffs and waste; and the trash that littered the dusty ground and erupted into hazardous, misshapen knolls; and the people, threadbare and pale, who cringed into the shadows beneath pipes and makeshift awnings, giving him a wide, careful berth.

His eyes briefly caught the sunken gaze of a woman huddled in the shade between two cardboard huts, and he glanced away when she ran a provocative hand over one bra-clad breast and licked her lips, her intent, her _hope,_ clear. From that point on he kept his gaze forward, straying only when something suspicious entered the periphery of his sight.

 _Gaia,_ but he hated when work brought him beneath the plate.

A gaggle of children erupted from behind a garbage hill onto the road in front of him, laughing as they waved metal plates and rusted pipes. So absorbed in their game, they didn't see him until he was but a few paces away. A girl, draped in rags held together by rope and sheer faith, was the first to notice, and a frightened gasp of _"Soldier!"_  had the rest of them looking his way, wide-eyed, no doubt, at the armored, sword-wielding man bearing down on them. With a chorus of curses and yelps they scattered like startled birds, scampering in every direction. Sephiroth couldn't help but think that it said a lot about ShinRa's relationship with the city's subterranean that the army, whose purpose should have been to protect Midgar's citizens, were feared to such an extent.

A small body crashed into his legs and Sephiroth looked down to see a head of yellow hair before the boy shook it and tried to get around him. Pursing his lips in exasperation, he gave the boy two seconds before he reached out and caught him by the scruff of his shirt.

"Hey!" The boy flailed. "Lemme go!"

"I will when you return the item you stole off my person."

"Don't know whatcha talkin' 'bout," he spat.

"Don't you," Sephiroth said flatly, loosening his grip on the threadbare material of the shirt when the boy's struggles ceased. When Sephiroth was certain he wasn't going to bolt (good though it would do him if he did) he released him and opened his palm, waiting.

The boy glanced at the outstretched hand, then finally looked up at him, and Sephiroth was met with the brightest pair of eyes he'd ever seen that weren't enhanced with mako. They were as blue as Junon's midsummer sky—though perhaps comparing them to the icy caps of Mt. Corel would be more appropriate, given the glare aimed his way.

With visible reluctance the boy reached into his satchel and pulled out a glossy green orb. Sephiroth pocketed the materia the moment it was dropped into his hand and studied the boy. He couldn't have been any older than six or seven by the looks of it and displayed the dirt-caked feet, tattered clothing, and sallowness that was characteristic of the poorest slummers.

"Are you aware," Sephiroth started tonelessly, "that pickpocketing in Midgar is a class-D crime punishable by a minimum of six months confinement? I should report you to the local authorities."

Sephiroth had expected instant contrition and panic. What he got instead was more silence and a darker stare. Oh, the boy _was_ scared—it was evident in the dilation of his pupils, the quickening of his breath, the nearly indiscernible trembling of his limbs—but he was certainly making a commendable effort not to show it. The General took in his clenched fists (as small as hummingbird eggs and just as fragile), his straight spine and lifted chin, the pale scars he could see littered throughout his body, telltale signs of a rough upbringing in an unforgiving environment. It all made for a fascinating picture, but what struck Sephiroth the most was his _eyes,_ glittering with frustration, narrowed with rebellion, and as mesmerizing as any ice materia he'd ever harnessed.

"Go," Sephiroth found himself saying, and the boy gave him one final inscrutable look before he bolted, swift and agile, across the narrow road and behind a hut, kicking up clouds of dirt as he escaped.

For a moment Sephiroth simply stood there, staring, before commotion up ahead pulled him from his thoughts and he continued his tread.

He wasn't sure why, but the encounter had…unsettled him. Perhaps it was the incident as a whole. That someone had the audacity to steal from a SOLDIER, let alone _him,_ was inconceivable. Genesis and Angeal would certainly get a laugh from it, which was why he promptly decided never to tell them. The last thing he wanted was to be teased for having been pickpocketed by a slum urchin-and that's precisely what had happened, even if Sephiroth _had_ realized it before the boy had managed to get away.

How…embarrassing.

 _Focus,_ Sephiroth told himself as he turned left at a crossroad and made his way towards the towering junkyard hills and the reactor that loomed behind it. _You still have a job to do._

And with that, all thoughts of bright, unruly hair and azure eyes dissipated from his mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FYI, the romance aspects of the fic are still a long ways off, so no underage stuff.


	2. Chapter 2

**[ μ ] – εуλ 1986 / August**

 

There was an impressive difference between summer above the plate and summer beneath it.

Above, in Midgar city proper, the heat was nigh intolerable. Even the endless sources of shade were of little reprieve from the heat. The cobblestone streets smelt like artificial fragrances that did little to conceal the stench of sweat.

However, there were also plants—few the city was able to cultivate given the barren environment—which, in a metropolis manufactured entirely of metals, were a sight.

Beneath the plate was a different tale. While considerably cooler, in large part due to it being disconnected from direct sunlight, it was somehow worse. The aridity intensified the fetor to the point of it being _agonizing_ to those not circumstantially immune. It was even worse for SOLDIERs, whose senses were enhanced.

Summer in the slums was a miserable affair, made obvious by the despondency of its inhabitants. Without AC units to cool their homes and establishments, or access to non-contaminated bodies of water and recreation centers that housed pools, they were forced to endure until the cooler months set in. That being the case, it was not novel to find the majority of the underground in a state of indecent half-dress, men and women alike sprawled on the ground and beside huts and against junkyard piles in half-naked, lethargic heaps.

Sephiroth kept his gaze away from the many displays of sweat-slick skin as he stalked towards the Sector 6 reactor on another one of President Shinra's paranoid whims.

It was night, though that meant little for the slum dwellers, many of whom had never been above the plate to see the light of day. The streets were dark, illuminated only by the faint glow of lanterns that hung from wires and coiled around iron posts. Only that light, and his own enhanced vision, kept him from stumbling over the raised dirt mounds and the trash that littered the streets.

Muffled voices carried from the east, followed by the groan of straining metal and the sound of shattering glass, and Sephiroth found himself stopping to crane his head in that direction. He deliberated over whether or not to investigate—he had only one objective, which he was determined to complete as soon as possible so he could return to his temperature controlled apartment and the comfort of his bed—but a sudden cry sounded, high-pitched like that of a child, and his body made the decision for him and broke course.

Seconds later found him gripping the shoulders of two boys and forcefully separating them from that of the younger one they'd been assaulting. In unison they both looked up, curses flying off their tongues, only to stop short and go still when they realized it was a SOLDIER apprehending them. Even with the lack of light the way their faces went pale was no less dramatic, and they shook beneath his gloved hands like the frightened juveniles they were.

"I would suggest," Sephiroth said coldly, flickering his gaze between the two, "that you get out of my sight. Otherwise, the two of you will find yourselves in the precinct under charges of assault, which, if you weren't aware, is a class-B crime punishable by fine and a minimum of six months confinement."

After a moment of listening to them splutter promises and apologies—neither of which they'd keep or likely meant—he released them. They fled, but Sephiroth didn't bother monitoring them. They were hardly silent as they made their escape. Instead, he turned his attention to the boy still on the ground, one hand cupping a purpling cheek, the other curled around his bare stomach where a mottled bruise peaked above a too-thin arm.

"Are you alright?" Sephiroth asked after a pause, eyes roaming over the bruises and scrapes he could see scattered on his pale, sweaty skin. All were superficial, and so he dismissed them as insignificant. He knew that to a slummer, anything less than broken or bleeding was child's play.

The boy said nothing, opting to run a shaky hand through his blond hair and hoist himself to his feet, wincing as his bruised skin pulled. He looked up, and _oh,_ Sephiroth remembered those eyes. They were darker, reflecting shadow and shade and deepening into a midnight blue, but the shape was familiar, as was the challenging narrow of his eyes, the stubborn glint. The only difference between the boy he'd seen then and the boy he was seeing now was perhaps an inch difference in height, a growing collection of bruises, and the defensive hunch of shoulders that Sephiroth could distinctly remember being stronger, prouder, even when he'd been caught stealing, had to return his acquisition, and was faced with the possibility of arrest.

It seemed wrong, somehow, and without thinking Sephiroth drawled, "Ah. The _pickpocket_. Picked the wrong pocket, have you?"

Sephiroth knew it was cruel to mock the boy in his state, but it felt like an impulse, almost, something he couldn't quite define driving him forward to fix the wrong. When the boy straightened his spine and drew up his shoulders, blue eyes narrowed in a furious glare and chin lifted obstinately, a tightness he hadn't realized had gripped his shoulders eased.

For another day, at least, this boy wouldn't be broken by the mercilessness of the slums; wouldn't become one of the blank-eyed lifeless that meandered the dirt streets, the weight of a city's greed on their shoulders and thieved of all hope.

For another day, at least, he'd continue to fight.

The boy, huffing in aggravation, strut forward without a word. Their arms glanced, and then he was off, sprinting into the dark.

"You're welcome by the way," Sephiroth muttered, a faint smirk playing at the corner of his lips. His fingers toyed with the money pouch the daring boy had tried, and failed, to lift before he returned it to his pocket and turned on his heel, towards the main path.

If the patrol team stationed at the reactor found his perpetual state of amusement unnerving, they didn't say.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :)


	3. Chapter 3

**[ μ ] – εуλ 1989 / March**

 

"Oh, come _on,_ Sephiroth! You _know_ you're dying to get out of this stuffy office!"

Lieutenant General Sephiroth gave First Lieutenant Zackary Fair a purposeful look, then glanced pointedly around the spacious, brightly lit room. He might have had a rather deep loathing for the office, but it was by no means _stuffy._

Zack rolled his violet eyes. "Fine. Then how about a break from the _piles of paperwork_ you've been sorting through for the past, oh, _three days_?"

That…was a considerably more convincing argument. Sephiroth eyed the aforementioned piles, both of them the length of his forearm, and suddenly a trip to Wall Market didn't seem quite so unappealing.

"I've already cleared your schedule with the secretary so I _know_ you don't have anything major planned for the day," Zack continued to wheedle, no doubt sensing Sephiroth's wavering resistance and pouncing on it, "and you've got to eat sometime, right? Besides, I'm telling you, Seph, this Wutain kiosk that just opened up is _to die for._ "

Oh, the sly pup, using Sephiroth's love of Wutain cuisine against him.

Angeal was teaching him well.

"So?" Zack pressed, rocking to the balls of his feet. "Want to come?"

Silently, thoughtfully, Sephiroth glanced first towards his towering paperwork, then out the eastern window and towards the bustling cityscape below. Midgar, in spring, was all pastel colors and merry festivity. What few plants there were were in bloom, and as if in recognition, or perhaps celebration, the civilians deemed it necessary to encourage festivities and trends that were on par. Wearing colorful clothing and garish accessories, filling the streets with buoyant music and saccharine scents, and orchestrating a wide array of festivals were some of the few ways they went about achieving this.

However gilded, Midgar was not a beautiful place. ShinRa had seen to that. Despite attempts of the city's upper level inhabitants to embellish and adorn, there was little to be done for the artificiality of it, as synthetic as the plastic flowers sold on street corners because none real would grow. Even the bright city lights were a lure, contrived to distract from the organic lights the city's pollution obscured.

It was genius on ShinRa's part, really—a mastery of phantasmagorics and misdirection that few were skilled enough to employ—but not impossible to see through. A single glance at _natural beauty,_ like the nebula of stars above the Nibelheim mountains at night and the wild, verdant jungles of Gongaga, was all that was required to shatter the illusion. It was Pandora's Box opening, and suddenly the city of Midgar, with its stale air and obnoxious construction and convoluted designs, wasn't enough.

It wasn't enough to see steel beams where trees should have stood, and cobblestone where grass should have spread, and miasma where celestial bodies should have shone.

Not for the first time, Sephiroth found himself wishing he could just leave. Abscond from the military and become a mercenary. He thought he could be content killing monsters in places where the air was clean and the skies clear. Roaming the lands on no one's authority but his own. Murdering only those who deserved it and creatures not intelligent enough to know whether or not they did.

Fanciful wishes. Sephiroth was, if nothing else, pragmatic, and he quickly grew annoyed with himself that he could still entertain such foolish notions. Ideas that, by all reason, he should have disposed of long ago.

ShinRa would rather burn the world than let him go.

Professor Hojo would sacrifice worse.

"—roth? Sephiroth? Oi, are you even listening?"

"Yes," he lied, drawing his attention away from the towering buildings that, at present, felt like prison bars. Zack was staring at him expectantly, one brow raised in a manner that suggested he was spending far too much time with Angeal. The other man folded bulging arms over his chest and cocked his head, expression shifting to something sharp and calculating, reminding Sephiroth that for all he acted like a puppy, Zack was still a First Lieutenant, and inherent in that was a perceptiveness and intelligence most couldn't hope to match.

"Are you alright?" Zack asked after a moment, watching as the Lieutenant General tucked several wayward strands of hair behind his ear. He sounded concerned, and Sephiroth pushed down the spark of irritation that came from losing his composure and gave a brief nod.

"Yes," he repeated. "Famished, is all."

Zack didn't appear to believe him, but let it slide. Something else he'd learned from Angeal, apparently, because the boy was very much like the dog they compared him to—when he got something between his teeth he refused to let it go.

"So that's a yes, I take it? Right, right?"

Sephiroth sighed.

"Fine," he consented, ignoring the accomplished _whoop!_ of the First Lieutenant. He stood and rounded the desk, ignoring the paperwork that he'd swear was taunting him, and grabbed Masamune from where it rested against the wall before fastening it to his back.

"Awesome! Now c'mon! I'm so hungry I could eat a bandersnatch." He paused and added, " _Raw._ "

Stifling a snort, he stepped past Zack, who fell in line behind him, and the two made their way out of his office, Zack blowing a kiss at Sephiroth's harried secretary as they went.

As he pressed the elevator button and took a step back-his attention divided between the display panel and Zack's chattering-he felt tension he hadn't realized he'd been carrying ease.

Zack's timing wasn't terrible, he decided, stepping onto the shaft as the doors opened. The lack of missions, in addition to being cooped up in an office for several days, had made him restless. Edgy. And without Angeal or Genesis around to redirect his energy, it had simply festered and channeled inwards, emerging as wanderlust and a need for variation.

The slums, while not nearly his favorite dwelling, might be what he needed at the moment. It wasn't the plush fields and rolling hills of Kalm he wanted to see, or even the ethereal snow caps of Mt. Corel, but within Midgar it was without a doubt the most _genuine_ place _,_ as neither ShinRa nor the slummers had much inclination to sprinkle it with faux-gold to hide its stains.

 _To think I would find solace within the slums,_ Sephiroth thought with no small amount of derision. The irony, the hypocrisy, was not lost on him.

 

* * *

 

 

It seemed as if every ounce of life the slums possessed was concentrated on the bustling area of Wall Market with its neon lights and dazzling colors and cacophonic sounds. Savory scents filled the air, tantalizing and sharp, intense enough to overpower the underlying smell of poverty.

It was like standing in the epicenter of a chocobo stampede. There were people everywhere, flittering between stands and dashing in and out of stores or simply browsing. The winds carried sounds of haggling, arguing, laughing, parents calling for the whereabouts of their children, the poor begging for spare gil, and beneath it all was music, terrible but jovial, its creators performing on a makeshift platform that seemed several kilograms away from falling apart.

Had it been above the plate they would have been chased away already. Sephiroth was hardly a connoisseur of music, but even he could tell they were horribly off tune. And yet, the slummers didn't seem to care. They danced around the stage, hands clapping and feet stomping. _Taking what joy they can get,_ a voice that sounded suspiciously like Angeal echoed in his head, but he pushed it away, determined not to fall into another spiral of moroseness.

"There!" Zack's shouted in his ear, successfully distracting him. Sephiroth followed his pointed finger to a bulky wooden kiosk surrounded by steam. "I swear, the dumplings there are to _die_ for. C'mon, before they run out! That's what happened last time and I just about started crying. Ooh, look, Chocobo's there!"

 _Chocobo?_ Sephiroth thought as he allowed himself to be dragged through the writhing crowd. He was glad for the all the noise when the most _delectable_ scent hit his noise and his stomach gurgled. In all fairness, it _had_ been eight hours since he'd last eaten.

"Chocobo!" Zack exclaimed as he unceremoniously tossed himself into one of the three empty stools. Sephiroth, sliding into the one next to him, thought it was a miracle the chair hadn't broken. "Hey! Long time no see!"

"I thought I told you not to call me that," a _very_ familiar voice grumbled, and Sephiroth turned his attention away from the bickering duo the next stand over just in time to a see his pickpocket step into the booth and a stout, older man at his heels.

The boy's eyes widened at the sight of Sephiroth, then narrowed suspiciously. He opened his mouth, but whatever he'd been about to say was cut off when the man—likely the owner—stepped in front of him and said, "Welcome to Odjee's Dumplings! How may I be of service to you, gentlemen?"

"Do you still have those spicy pork dumplings?" Zack implored, leaning forward on his forearms.

The owner's moustache flopped as he bobbed his head. "Of course! We're currently out of duck and low on beef, but everything else is fully stocked!"

"Thank _Gaia,"_ Zack breathed. "Okay, so I'd like fifteen spicy pork, five curry beef, and ten vegetable! To stay!"

The owner looked positively _elated_ as Zack rattled off his excessive order. When he was done, he turned to Sephiroth with twinkling eyes, no doubt hoping his appetite was at least on par with the other man's.

"And you, sir?"

A menu of some sort would have been nice, but since that clearly wasn't an option… "Ten spicy pork, five curry beef, fifteen vegetable, and five cheese, if you have it."

"Yes, of course! Oh, I'll only be a moment, sirs! Strife, get these gentlemen some water while I prepare their meals!" And then he was off, disappearing to a back corner to do just that.

Strife. He'd called the boy _Strife_. How…strange, yet remarkably suitable. Sephiroth had to wonder if it was his given name or surname, or even his real name at all.

The boy— _Strife,_ he reminded himself—moved to the opposite end of the kiosk. Sephiroth tracked his movements as he opened a metallic canteen (one of those insulating ones, so likely costly) and poured clear water into wooden cups. His wild, corn-colored hair flopped as he carried the cups to the bar and set it before them—Zack's with considerable more care, he noted with amusement, eyeing the small puddle of water in front of him.

Strife gave him a dispassionate stare and returned to his employer's side. A few minutes later he was helping him carry two trays of steaming food to the front.

"Please enjoy!" The owner said, beaming at them unnervingly. Sephiroth wished he would stop. "If you need any help at all, Strife will assist you. Strife!," he barked, "I'm low on oil so I'll be heading over to Gita's. I'll be back in a jiffy, but until then, you're in charge. Don't forget to collect!"

"Yes, sir," Strife said.

The owner chuckled and ruffled his hair before he left, and Sephiroth was inordinately pleased by his departure. The man was far too cheerful _._ He made Zack look despondent in comparison.

"So, Chocobo—," Zack started after inhaling half his portion, only to be cut off by a flat stare and a sharp,

"I told you not to call me that."

The older man waved a careless hand. "Fine, fine. Spike, then. Anyway, as I was saying—"

"I don't care," he said mulishly.

"—it's good seeing you again," Zack continued, ignoring the comment with the ease of a man accustomed to being ignored himself. "I got worried when you weren't around the last two times I was here. Is everything alright?"

There was a long stretch of silence. For a moment, Sephiroth thought the question would go unanswered, but clearly Strife was as affected by Zack's sincerity as everyone else because he eventually sighed. "Yeah. I came down with a cold, but I'm fine now."

In an instant Zack's inquiring expression shifted to one of concern. It wasn't hard to gather why; getting sick below the plate was a lot different from getting sick above it. Even minor illnesses could take turns for the worse because of the less than ideal conditions. Take into account the lack of a proper medical institution, qualified healers and medics, and scant curative resources, and even something as innocuous as the common cold could prove to be fatal.

"Are you sure?" Zack asked, distracted from stuffing his face for the time being. Clearly he was worried, and Sephiroth made a mental note to inquire about their relationship later. "I'm not a medic or anything, but I'm sure I could—"

"I don't need handouts," Strife snapped.

Zack's face visibly fell, and after a moment of tension, the boy loosened his stance and sighed. "I'm fine," he said again. His tone left no room for argument, but it was gentler. Less like a taut band ready to snap. "Really. It left my system days ago."

Another stretch of silence, and Zack eventually nodded. "Alright. Sorry, I didn't mean—"

"It's fine," Strife interrupted him, waving his hand dismissively.

"If you say so. Anyway," he said, deliberately changing the subject, "let me introduce you to a good friend of mine. He's also my superior, but right now he's just a friend. Spike, this is Sephiroth. Sephiroth, this is Spike—er, _Strife._ I have no idea what his first name is because he refuses to tell me, for some reason, but I can't in good conscience call him _Strife,_ so I chose something else. Initially it was Chocobo, since it's obviously the most fitting, but Spike will do, I suppose."

When the babbling came to an end Zack looked pointedly between the two of them, who were staring at each other with similarly blank expressions. Sephiroth was grudgingly impressed. If only the boy were as adept at pickpocketing as he was clearing his expression, he'd likely be rich by now.

"Strife," Sephiroth murmured with a nod, choosing not to tell Zack the two of them had met. The boy would probably prefer that his—friend?—not know the particulars of his extracurricular activities, or that he'd tried it out on Sephiroth. Twice.

If Zack didn't already know, then there was no need to clue him in. Perhaps some would say he was obligated to warn the man, considering, but Zack was a SOLDIER Second Class. If he allowed himself to get _pickpocketed_ he deserved to deal with the consequences.

Strife simply stared at him, gaze inscrutable, before he turned away and started prepping the corner station. From the corner of his eye he could see Zack look between them in confusion, but he ignored the First Lieutenant, opting instead to focus on his meal.

If his eyes kept straying to the boy without his permission, well, no one noticed.

Five minutes later and both trays were cleared, the only thing remaining a half-empty saucer of soy sauce. Sephiroth downed the rest of his water and stood. His stomach was pleasantly full, and all in all, it had been good meal. Zack, while prone to incessant chatter and probing questions, was decent company all told. And the food, while not quite at the level of the delicacies he was used to, had been tasteful.

"Ready to pay?" Strife asked, stepping towards them.

"Yup! How much?" He was already pulling out his money pouch.

"60 gil."

Zack handed it over without complaint. "And Seph?"

After securing the money to a satchel tied around his hip, Strife looked him straight in the eye and said, "120 gil."

Sephiroth's eyebrows drew up.

"Uh, Spike?" Zack said, rubbing the nape of his neck unsurely. "Don't think you might have, uh, miscalculated that a bit?"

"No," the boy said flatly. He folded his arms. "His order comes up to 120 gil."

"How is that even possible! He ordered, like, five more dumplings than me! That's _double_ what I paid!"

Strife shrugged, eyes never wavering from where they rested on Sephiroth, brimming with something sharp. Something _challenging_ , he realized after a moment, and Sephiroth felt the corners of his mouth twitch in an aborted smirk when the _audacious boy_ cocked his brow as if to say, _Well?_

He was being pickpocketed. Not in the purest sense of the word, but that's exactly what was happening. And Sephiroth, rather than bristle with righteous indignation or anger, only felt _amused_ by the boy's gall.

To think, he had once worried about the mental fortitude of a boy bold enough to cheat a SOLDIER First Class while in the presence of said SOLDIER'S subordinate. Sephiroth was not often wrong in cases of character assessment, but he couldn't have been more mistaken in his valuation of the boy.

Strife was a _fighter._

"It's fine, Zack," he murmured, ignoring Zack's outburst of _It is not fine, Lieutenant General_ and _What the hell is wrong with the two of you!_ in favor of extracting the pouch clipped to his hip and digging out exact change. Without taking his eyes off the boy he placed the money directly in his open palm. A brush of warm skin, and the boy's hand was plunging into the satchel.

Sephiroth harbored no doubt that the moment his back was turned the boy would be pocketing the difference.

"Your patronage is appreciated, _sir,_ " Strife said, taking a step back. When he looked up again, Sephiroth would swear he saw the faintest hint of a smirk hovering at the edges of his lips, but it was gone a second later, replaced by the stoicism he seemed to favor.

"I'm sure," Sephiroth said dryly. He studied the boy for a second longer—taking in the too-clever eyes, the wind-tousled hair, the pallor of his skin which, for the first time in his presences, was devoid of fresh bruises and scrapes, and the very slight increment of height he'd gained, no doubt to the boy's irritation—before he turned on his heel without another word and stalked off.

He pretended not to hear Zack's protests and demands for an explanation as he weaved through the thickened crowd with long strides. It was unexplainable, but he felt the most curious urge to look back. It was a buzzing, throbbing pressure in beneath his skin, not unlike an itch, but he ignored it as readily as he was ignoring the First Lieutenant's whining, crossing it off as mere interest.

After all, it wasn't every day that a civilian—and a _slum urchin,_ no less—succeeded in stealing from a SOLDIER First Class, least of all him. Regardless if Sephiroth had allowed it, the fact remained that he'd still _tried._

If nothing else, that certainly warranted his curiosity.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So all my feels about ShinRa and Midgar (particularly the slums)? They're totally leaking into this fic. Whoops. 
> 
> Also, you've probably noticed some discrepancies between my Sephiroth and his canonical counterpart. Yeah. This is how he wanted to be written so I just went with it, though I have to say, I'm rather fond of him. :) 
> 
> Also also, I have no idea how money in the FF[7] universe works. The games are all incredibly inconsistent with their usage of gil as currency, which is basically every fan writer's nightmare. OTL


	4. Chapter 4

**[ μ ] – εуλ 1991 / January**

 

Paperwork. The bane of his existence.

General Sephiroth, SOLDIER First Class, stared unseeingly at the twenty-two inch stack of potential cadet applications in front of him. It was fortunate that there were so many men—and women, rare they were—interested in enlisting in the SOLDIER recruitment program. What _wasn't_ fortunate was that Sephiroth had to sort through each and every one—meticulously, as both his nature and rank obligations commanded it—and determine whom were viable candidates.

Thus far he had gone through 496 applications (one-fourth of the files overall) and his right hand was cramping from the constant motions of writing, circling, striking. His eyes burned, his back ached, and the migraine that had formed sometime yesterday had amplified to an unbearable degree. Not even a potion had helped. He doubted anything other than an interruption from paperwork would.

He drew a large X over the file he was reading—

> _#497 - Maspith, Jef; Junon citizen; male; age 16; 170cm; 342 lbs_ — _REJECT, doesn't fit the physical fitness qualification requirements..._

—and restrained the urge to shove the entire heap off his desk, consequence be damned. Instead, he settled for slamming the file on top of the rejected pile hard enough for his desk to creak.

" _My friend, the fates are cruel,"_ the interloper seated on the window ledge recited aloud, breaking his concentration and exacerbating his temper.

Sephiroth leveled a frigid stare at the other SOLDIER First Class. "Genesis, _shut up_."

He heard the sound of a book snapping shut, the ruffle of clothing, the thud of boots hitting tile, and finally, footsteps approaching.

" _All that awaits you is a somber morrow; no matter where the winds may blow_. And to think I'd once coveted _your_ job," the Commander said with a rueful shake of his head before sliding into a chair, one knee crossing over the other. " _Infinite in mystery…"_

Sephiroth felt his fingers twitch and forcefully stilled them. He wasn't sure whether it was a good thing Masamune was not within arm's reach. After a moment of consideration he decided it _definitely_ was. The amount of paperwork he'd have to fill out if he were to kill a fellow SOLDIER First Class without _probable cause_ simply wouldn't be worth it.

 (Regardless what the small voice in the back of his head was telling him.)

"You should take a break," Genesis' sly voice broke through his musings. "Just for an hour or two. Surely it would only help."

In other words, Genesis was bored and wanted to spar.

Sephiroth had to use every iota of self-restraint he possessed not to bite. As _good_ as a break sounded—doing anything, he didn't care what as long as it didn't involve paperwork—he knew he couldn't allow himself even that small cessation. He could accomplish a lot in an hour, and the quicker he finished and sent his selections off to Lazard, the quicker he could request a potentially dangerous mission far, _far_ away from Midgar.

"I appreciate the offer, but I must decline. Perhaps after I've finished all of this."

Genesis snorted. "Next month, then?"

He considered it a commendable show of self-restraint that he only glared scathingly at the man and not acted on the many other urges pushing for prominence, all of which would have gotten him a court martial. _At the very least._

His friend sighed. Sephiroth heard him open his book— _LOVELESS,_ like always—and the room descended into a semi-comfortable silence. With a resigned grunt, he turned his gaze to his work.

> _#498 - Bryghm, Storm; Midgar citizen; male; age 14; 170 cm; 124 lbs —_ REJECT.
> 
> _#499 - Houmi, Augustus; Gongaga citizen; male; age 15; 173cm; 162 lbs —_ APPROVE.
> 
> _#500 - Cain, Kayli; Costa del Sol citizen; female; age 17; 179 cm; 136 lbs —_ APPROVE.
> 
> _#501 - Zephus, Siean; N. Corel citizen; male; age 16; 182 cm; 190 lbs —_ REJECT.
> 
> _#502 - Gale, Peter; N. Corel citizen; male; age 18; 164 cm; 115 lbs —_ REJECT _._
> 
> _#503 - Strife, Cloud—_

Sephiroth paused.

He stared at the name for a moment, uncertain if he'd read that correctly. But no, the name at the top of the page clearly stated ' _Strife, Cloud; Midgar citizen'_ and Sephiroth flipped to the second page without another thought, half-expecting to find a photo of someone else unfortunate enough to be saddled with the surname _Strife._

Incomprehensibly, a familiar face peered up at him from the slip of plastic. It was _definitely_ Strife. Even if he had sheared his hair off and painted his skin brown, Sephiroth would know those eyes anywhere. The boy in the picture was glaring, sky blue eyes narrowed in stubborn defiance, as if _daring_ ShinRa to reject him. He somehow looked even paler against the dark grey backdrop, his skin paper white beneath a shock of chocobo-yellow hair.

For minutes Sephiroth simply stared, not quite believing what he was seeing. What this _meant._ Strife, the slum urchin, _the pickpocket,_ had filed a SOLDIER application. Strife, the boy who couldn't be bothered to thank him for saving his life and then went on to try and _steal_ from him— _twice,_ wanted entry into the SOLDIER program. Wanted to _be_ a SOLDIER.

It was a good thing Genesis was too absorbed in re-reading _LOVELESS_ to witness his reaction.

Slowly, Sephiroth turned to the first page and skimmed his stats.

> _Strife, Cloud._

_Cloud?_ Sephiroth thought with a snort before continuing.

> _Midgar Citizen. Male. Age 15. 159 cm. 98 lbs._

Despite being rather small for his age ( _really_ small; Sephiroth had thought him to be much younger than he was) he checked out. He had no living relatives which according to ShinRa, made for an ideal candidate. _Less ties and distractions,_ was the proffered reasoning. More like, _no one to kick up a fuss when the soldier eventually goes missing or dies, either in action or courtesy of the science department._

The mandated physical examination had revealed no history of substance abuse, mako or otherwise, which was especially rare for one living beneath the plate. No STDs, chronic diseases, illnesses, or infections. No debilitating injuries. The results of his psychiatric evaluation were adequate; he exhibited signs of anti-social behavior, aggression, and slight paranoia—none of which were uncommon for slummers—but that was the worst of it, and nothing that couldn't be minimalized, if not quelled, with time.

Sephiroth noted that kleptomania hadn't been listed. Not that he was particularly surprised.

Strife didn't quite meet the fitness criteria, but that could be attributed to his lifestyle. He hadn't performed so terribly in the fitness assessment that, with a diet meeting all his caloric and nutritional needs and a vigorous regimen targeting his weak areas, he couldn't bring himself up to standards if he exerted himself. It wouldn't be easy, but then, the program was specifically designed so that it wouldn't be.

After all, ShinRa had no use for unqualified, unexceptional SOLDIERs.

Fingers tapping against his desk, Sephiroth re-read his file once more, branding the details to his memory. After a moment he lifted his red marker and let it hover over the first page, uncharacteristically uncertain as to how he should proceed.

He _should_ reject him, he knew. Thrice now the boy had demonstrated vices unsuitable for SOLDIER candidates. Turks, indubitably, but not SOLDIER. Of course, joining the program was the only feasible, and _legal_ , method of capturing the Turks' attention…

With that thought, Sephiroth added another tick to the _approve_ category, even if the thought of Strife joining the _Turks_ made something undefinable clench unpleasantly in his stomach.

_I should reject him for the sake of our equipment if nothing else,_ he mused with a touch of reluctant amusement. That Strife was a verified thief who'd no doubt cause the company problems in the future should definitely concern him more than it currently was. If he was bold enough to steal from _Sephiroth,_ a _SOLDIER_ , then it stood to reason he'd have no qualms against thieving from bigger monsters; namely ShinRa Inc.

Allowing a thief into the ranks could be a potential disaster.

_But undesirable habits can be broken,_ Sephiroth thought with peculiar obstinacy as he gave into the impulse to look at Strife's photo again. What he saw there is what tipped the scales, and without another thought Sephiroth turned to the first page and scrawled, _APPROVE._

For better or worse, he wanted Strife in the program. He wanted to see the extent of his capabilities outside of petty thieving, wanted to see whether he'd rise above the harsh conditions and harsher expectations, or if he'd shatter like so many others had. Wanted to know if his interest in Strife was misplaced.

"You've been handling that file for nearly ten minutes now," Genesis' voice cut through his cogitation. When he looked up, the man was staring inquisitively at him, his book abandoned on his lap. "Someone interesting?" he hazarded. "Must be if they've caught _your_ eye."

Knowing that Genesis' curiosity would only intensify if left ignored and feeling curiously disinclined to tell his friend about Strife, Sephiroth prevaricated with, "Perhaps." He then slid the file into the center of the pile just in case Genesis got it in his head to investigate.

It would also keep his urge to constantly check the boy's application at bay.

Not that he acknowledged it as such.


End file.
